


in the night sky

by ViolaWay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Attempt at Humor, Busking, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, John's a Doctor, M/M, Sherlock's Violin, a bit of humor i guess, how many star trek references can i fit in here, i'm obsessed with sherlock and his violin, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolaWay/pseuds/ViolaWay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John walks home late at night, and there's a man with a violin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the night sky

His shift ends late, and it’s always dark when he leaves the hospital. Hangs up his doctor’s coat, waves a goodbye to Molly (she always insists on staying later than him) and walks back to his flat. He shares the small, two-bedroom place with a man called Greg, who’s recently divorced. While he walks, he usually looks up and counts the smattering of stars in the bleak London sky. It’s nearly midnight, but pollution permanently clouds them from view—they’re lost, pinpricks of light, in the deep blue sky, fighting against the thick grey that is constantly on the verge of smothering them. He’s never been one to know about constellations in excessive detail, but he appreciates their beauty all the same.

Checking his watch as he rounds the corner, away from St. Barts, is a habit, but when he looks up this time he can feel eyes on him. He peers across the street, sight straining against the blanket of darkness, and that’s when he hears it.

The first notes of a melancholy, haunting piece of violin music, played expertly by whoever caught his eye. No one else is out in this area at this time of night. There are rowdy shouts from the line of pubs a few streets away, but on this road he is alone with whoever is playing the violin. His feet propel him forwards and across the street before he can instruct them to of his own accord, so entranced is he by the music.

It’s halfway across that he manages to make out the musician’s features: piercing blue-green eyes, and dark curls against pale skin. White fingers flying across the strings, wrapped firmly around the bow.

“Hello,” he calls out, voice ringing through the stale air.

The other man doesn’t even look up. The piece reaches its crescendo, though, piercing John’s heart through with a joyless ache. Tears prick his eyes, embarrassingly, and nothing could have caused them except the music.

The song ends.

“Hello,” John tries again, hand already in his pocket, trying to work out if he has any spare change there.

“Hello,” the slightly haughty voice replies. “What _were_ you doing at the hospital so late? No, wait—you had one last patient. A severe case of pneumonia. Underlying conditions, too. You’re not sure she’ll live.”

John is stunned into silence for a few seconds, unable to speak.

“How did you know that?” he demands, when he’s regained his voice. It’s all true, every last word of it. The woman’s called Stacy, and she’s got three kids. She talked about them dotingly when he was seeing to her, about little Matthew and teenage Natalie and grown-up Kate. He’d had to tell himself multiple times not to get attached, not to get invested.

“There’s a bit of blood on your jumper,” the stranger points out, as if that’s an explanation. “More than a bit, actually. As if she’d been coughing it up for a while. If you’d thought she was going to live, I think you would’ve offered her a hankerchief. But you don’t, do you. I can see it in your expression. And, obviously, with where it’s placed, it would have to be someone of around five foot three inches in height, and men are rarely that short.”

John is at a loss; he is utterly clueless about how to respond. He tries, anyway.

“That’s…right. Your playing was wonderful.”

“It was, wasn’t it.” His arrogance is betrayed by the slight smile in his eyes, the smallest hint of euphoria at the attention.

“We don’t normally get buskers around here,” John comments, for lack of anything else to say. “What’s your name?”

“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. And I’m not a _busker_ ,” he spits the word, as if disgusted by the inference that there might be a reason for him to play the violin outside in the middle of the night. John finds it strangely endearing: the childlike insolence. He half expects the violinist to stamp his foot.

“What are you, then?” he asks, grinning.

“I’m an artist. And I play to concentrate,” Sherlock Holmes retorts. But he’s shivering, even in his coat and scarf, and there’s a definite sense of desolation in his eyes.

“Fine. But it’s nearly midnight and you’re probably freezing. It’s December, you know? Where do you live?” John asks, bundling his own jacket closer to himself. He finds himself with the strangest urge to help this man, no matter how rude he pretends to be.

“I live in Baker Street,” is the stiff reply.

“That’s ages away!” John responds. “Why are you so far away at this time of night? How long have you been out here?”

“That is not ‘ages away’, Doctor. Baker Street is only half an hour’s walk away, and I often walk to clear my head. I am here because I wish to be, and it is none of your concern. I have been out here for…” Sherlock pauses. “…an undetermined number of hours.”

“Well, I’m not letting you walk back in your state,” John decides aloud. Sherlock bristles at the perceived affront, but doesn’t reply, so John continues. “I only mean to say, you’ve got no gloves on and it’s certainly below freezing. If you’ve been out here that long, you might have hypothermia. My flat’s only a five minute walk away, and I can check to see if you’re alright. You won’t mind sleeping on the couch, will you?”

“I am a stranger,” Sherlock replies, sounding confused.

“Yes, you are. It’s alright to do a good deed for a stranger, isn’t it? I just want to make sure you’re okay. Honestly, you look dead on your feet. When was the last time you slept?”

“A week ago.”

“Shit. Come on, let’s get moving,” John says, leading the way. He walks with a stiff gait; the pain in his leg is intermittent these days, and he barely needs the cane, but in such cold weather the old injury can act up.

“Psychosomatic.”

“What did you say?” John queries sharply. The last time he heard that word was when he was still seeing his therapist, almost a year ago. After he’d been shot. But Sherlock Holmes—a stranger with a violin—could not possibly know that.

“Your limp. It’s psychosomatic. There’s no injury there,” Sherlock repeats, as if speaking to someone incredibly slow-witted.

“It is. How could you possibly know that?” John demands.

“When you walked over to me, it was without any hint of an injury. Now, you are having trouble,” Sherlock observes sensibly. “Which house is yours?”

“You can’t tell me?” John laughs. He gets an inquisitive look, and explains: “That…thing you do. It’s amazing. You can tell any number of things about me without me having to say a word. I’ve never met anyone else who can do that.”

“Of course you haven’t. I’m the world’s only Consulting Detective.”

“And what’s that?” They’ve reached John’s flat, now; he’s unlocking the door. The blast of warm air hits them both as soon as the peeling red door is opened, and John catches Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed, basking in the heat. He smiles at the sight—at the vulnerability there.

“It means that I solve the crimes the police can’t.”

“And why would they go to you?” John asks, suppressing a smile. He thinks of Greg, who always seems so self-assured, as a Detective Inspector. He can’t imagine the man needing help very often, even in the cases he can’t make head or tails of.

“Because I am better.”

“At what?”

“Everything.”

John snorts. The arrogance is oddly charming, but still funny. This man can’t possibly be as vital as he makes himself out to be: good party trick or no. He can see how it might come in handy, being able to know someone’s life story in a glance, but the police have lie detectors and experts to do that job. They walk into the living room.

“Sherlock!”

It’s a small room, even though both Greg and John could probably afford better. And Greg’s on the sofa now, TV playing softly in the background. His eyes widen at the sight of John’s companion, and it’s his exclamation that breaks the brief silence.

“What are you doing here?” the DI continues incredulously, looking from John to Sherlock as if he thinks they’re playing some sort of joke on him.

“You two know each other?” John demands.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock says coldly. “It was the handsome American who did it. What was his name? Chris?”

“Remind me in the morning,” Greg replies wearily, rubbing his forehead. “I’m too tired for this right now. I’m going to bed.” With that, he hauls himself off the sofa and stumbles to his bedroom, looking like he’s just seen a ghost.

“You…help Greg?” John asks tentatively, still not quite believing it.

“Is that his first name?” Sherlock waves off the inquiry vaguely. “Mm, I’ve been known to assist him on occasion.”

“…Right.” John shakes his head. “Look, I’ve got a pair of gloves somewhere. Stay here for a minute.”

“My hands are fine,” Sherlock insists stubbornly, but he rubs them together even so, as if John has just reminded him of the cold still numbing them.

“Yeah, right. But I’ll feel better if you put a pair of gloves on.”

***

John is endlessly patient with Sherlock, and Sherlock finds his tough exterior melting under the careful attention. He hasn’t felt…looked after like this in a long time. Stalked, maybe, by Mycroft. But this is different. It’s nice.

He ends up in a pair of pyjamas that are far too small, showing his skinny ankles and his bony wrists, but they’re warm, and far more comfortable that stiff suits, so he curls up on the sofa, letting John cover him with a fleece blanket and allowing his eyes to drift shut, the first time they’ve been permitted to do so in a while. These days, he barely thinks about natural bodily functions, just passes out when he gets tired to the point of utter exhaustion. He eats sporadically, drinks only when he feels a pain further than discomfort. But John makes him tea, and gives him a biscuit to go with it, sits on the arm of the sofa and hums compassionately.

The room is blurring in and out of focus, the ugly yellow walls and mismatching furniture becoming disjointed in between the beginnings of dream. In the dream, John tucks him in, in a soft, welcoming bed, before climbing in beside him. It’s a nice dream. He smiles in his sleep.

***

John sleeps restlessly, waking early and finding that he can’t stand to be in his bed any longer. He goes out into the living room, eyes falling Sherlock’s pale face framed by a cascade of unruly curls. There’s a smile on the full lips, and serenity in the sharp features that comforts John, even as he forces himself not to look. Instead, he pulls out his laptop and set it on the desk, which sits adjacent to the couch, typing out an email to Harry and obediently adding a post to his (incredibly unpopular) blog.

“You’re agitated.” A groggy observation from a half-asleep Consulting Detective, but accurate all the same.

“My sister,” John explains.

“She’s an alcoholic.”

“How did you…?” John trails off, he’s no longer sure of quite what Sherlock is capable of, but it seems like, based on Greg’s reaction, it’s a lot.

“You disapprove of her, obviously, and there’s a conspicuous lack of alcohol in this flat,” Sherlock points out lazily, stretching like a cat in his blanket. “It’s a bit of a guess, really, but obviously, judging by your reaction, I’m right.”

“I do _drink_ ,” John protests.

“I never said you didn’t.”

“Fine, whatever. Did you want to go get some breakfast? You’re far too thin. I would offer you some food here, but all we’ve got are tea bags and milk.”

“You’re asking him _out_?” Greg, who had not been previously noticed by John, asks from the doorway. “No, wait, you know what—I don’t want to know. You guys have fun. Be safe. I am so _done_ with this shit.” He turns back into his room with a huff. Sherlock and John stare after him, wide-eyed.

“I wasn’t asking you out,” John mutters.

“Noted.”

“Out of interest, _would_ you mind if I—?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh my God, SHUT UP!” Greg yells, voice muffled by what is, presumably, a pillow. “LEAVE. I NEVER, EVER WANTED TO HEAR ANYONE FLIRT WITH SHERLOCK HOLMES, YOU BASTARD.”

“I know a good place, and I never have to pay there,” Sherlock suggests, grinning the sadistic smile of someone revelling in another’s pain.

“Let’s go, then,” John replies, mirroring the smile.

***

“I’ll put out a candle. Makes it more romantic,” Angelo suggests.

“Thanks,” John responds.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave feedback! <3


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